


Commentficpalooza

by trail_mix (cascadewaters)



Category: various - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadewaters/pseuds/trail_mix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of prompts from commentfic on livejournal and my responses to them.  These can be any number of fandoms, some purist and some crossover; most of them also allude to my own 'sandboxes' for these fandoms and characters.  I strongly suggest, as always, that you read any warnings attached to each chapter/ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gift (Avengers)

_MCU, Clint/Thor (or Clint and Thor), Thor takes Clint to the forests of Asgard to pick wood for his new bow_

 

Ever since the discovery that young Clint of Barton had been... borrowed, with some fair frequency and no proper protocol, by unnamed others of Midgard's enforcers... and not always returned in his original condition, members of the Avengers had been attending him when possible. They were claiming it as their right, claiming *him,* which seemed right and proper a thing to do, to Thor's mind, but he also privately thought that they were effectively courting the young mortal--not as lovers but as beloveds, as family--offering him reasons to return to them. And as the young Midgardian had at one time or another rescued each of them and even the Lady Pepper, Thor did not disapprove.

Personally, he also felt that they were offering him advantages, bettering his chances of returning to them alive, as those who would 'borrow' the young archer had seeming small regard for his life. To respect a warrior's commitment unto the chance of death or grave harm was one thing, but to Thor, his warriors were not merely tools to be damaged and thrown to the void.

Thor hated to confess, even if only in his own mind, but he felt... left out. He, too, held Clint of Barton in high esteem and no little affection, having fought and trained and made merry by his side. And, too, Thor supposed that he bore some account in the loss of one of the archer's most-favored bows (it had just been in practice, but Thor supposed that an Asgardian landing from a great height on a piece-meal instrument already worn from years of use constituted responsibility.) So, in the face of the others' gifts--Doctor Banner's rare comraderie, the Captain's particular shades of protective elder-brotherliness, Tony of Stark's work in replacement limbs and even a custom suite of rooms at Stark Tower in hopes that the younger man would come home rather than stay in dubious lodgings--Thor had cast about for an idea.

The Lady Natasha suggested that he focus on the loss of the bow, but it was Loki who reminded Thor that the device had been more than an empty tool to the archer; Clint of Barton had crafted that old bow in desperate times from spare bits of other things, and it had served him as well as his more sophisticated instruments. Thor thought about fashioning a replacement himself, and might try his hand at the craft in future, but for now, he agreed with Loki that, as a dedicated swordsman might prefer to forge and balance his own blade, Hawkeye seemed a man given to tailoring his own bows, the tools of his trade and, all too often, his only companions and protectors. So now Thor led the archer through the forests around the all-father's stronghold, both warriors enjoying the quiet and the crisp air as they searched for the wood that would speak to the young mortal's fingers. It was here that Thor learned that Clint of Barton was often 'borrowed' for use of other skills and was not always permitted even a standard bow; and so it was here that Thor resolved to see his young friend--Loki alone would hold the title of 'brother' to Thor, but _systrungr,_ cousin, would do--never unarmed, unprotected. This would just have to *not* be a 'standard' bow.


	2. Running Out (Firefly)

_Firefly, any, knowing this is their last trip together on_ _Serenity_

There really wasn't a lot of time to get all blubbery--they only had just under an hour, and they were all too busy gettin' everything sorted. It was weird, knowin' that this was it, that they were headed for the Curtain and couldn't do a dustin' thing to stop it. But they didn't give themselves time to think about it, what with all the packin' and divvyin' up and tossin' about of orders, and later, most of that hour would be a blur.

  
  
But as long as he lived, Jayne Cobb would never forget a couple of things about those moments of dancing with panic: Mal, takin' him aside to tell him to do right by their people, both knowin' that Mal meant for Jayne to keep 'em together and Jayne knowin' that he'd be better off without the others hangin' on him... the doc, takin' just a second to look in on Kaylee's empty quarters, takin' just a second to miss the little engine girl and maybe be glad for once that she'd moved on more'n a month back, so she wouldn't have to see all this... Zoe, marchin' about and luggin' stuff like this was any other job while wearin' Wash's favorite shirt as a head scarf... Inara, pullin' away in her shuttle with a partin' message for all of 'em by way of blinkin' her lights in Old Code... and the girl, their personal time bomb, standin' on the stairs, quietly crying and asking Mal to wake her up when he came home.

  
  
And no one, not even Jayne, had the heart to tell the little crazy that that would never happen, that she'd never see Mal again; no one'd say it, but Jayne was pretty sure they all knew that the cap'n'd go down with his ship, keep it outta enemy hands, his last battlefield or somesuch. Mal and Zoe liked breathin' as much as the next fella (which would be Jayne, who was more'n passing fond of breathin', thank you very much,) but this... there weren't no comin' back from this, not for them. Sad thing was, the doc'd stay if it weren't for his little sister, Inara'd wanted to stay but had a promise to keep and couldn't shout Mal down, and Jayne, well... he was a lot of things, but a hero t'weren't one of 'em. He didn't wanna lose his home, or his job, or even, okay, his family, but he didn't do suicidal, and Mal didn't seem to expect different or think less of him for it.

  
  
No, Mal just wanted him to play flippin' babysitter to a bunch of saps. Well, the cap'n had saved--or spared--Jayne's life more'n the weaponer'd like to say, so he guessed he'd at least have to try. As Jayne finished mobilizing his arsenal and ran for the second shuttle, with no time left to take a last look around the best home he'd had since he'd left Oleta as a kid, he wondered if he'd ever find another place that accepted him the way Serenity had.


	3. Normal (Merlin)

_Merlin, Merlin + Gwaine, gathering firewood despite Merlin being able to magically sustain a campfire, just for old times' sake_

"Gwaine," Merlin huffed, trying mightily not to whine.

  
  
"Yes, Merlin?" Gwaine's reply was soft and placid. And thoroughly maddening.

  
  
"You do remember that I'm a wizard, right? I can do magic. In fact, I've got much better at it."

  
"Yes, I remember."

  
  
Merlin dropped the sticks he was carrying and straightened. "Then why are we doing this the... slow way?"

  
  
Gwaine looked over at him, blinked a couple of times, and said, "Because we can." When Merlin just stared blankly at him, Gwaine walked up the little slope that separated them. "For the last couple of years, life has been pretty much one crisis after another; we've not really had time to just do normal things. But just now, just here, you and I do happen to have a bit of that time, and I see no reason why we shouldn't take advantage of being out in the forest, doing things that actual people actually do, and knowing that, for now at least, we can both relax and just be ourselves. Without judgments. Or boots to shine. Or knightlings to train. Or orders from overgrown brats who really haven't a clue." As Merlin slowly started to smile, so did Gwaine. "Ah, and now you see it, too." He took the last steps and tossed an arm around Merlin's thin shoulders, pulling the impact at the last second to spare the young wizard a jolt. "Come on, slightly scary brother-mine, let's get this fire going so we can eat and drink and do... well, whatever it is that men do 'round a decent fire."


	4. Pick a Space (Stargate SG1)

_any, any, What do you mean someone left a parking ticket on the moon buggy?_

 

"I mean just what I said. But... but..." Jack gaped for a moment before pulling together a coherent thought. "But we're on the moon."  
  


"Yes, Jack, I'm aware."  
  


Jack sputtered, "The moon, Daniel. We're on *the moooooon!*"  
  


Daniel sighed. "Yes, Jack. We have established that we are, in fact, on the moon."  
  


Jack reached out with his bulky glove to snatch the ticket from Daniel's, bringing it close to his faceplate so that he could examine it in detail. "But... how...?? It's not like there are meter maids up here! And what the-- Double-parking?!? How--?? I didn't double-park! You can't double-park on the moon! You can't *single-park* on the moon! There are no lines!!" He finally trailed off with some strangled sounds of frustration, entertaining mental images of finding this 'meter maid' and sending her tumbling far, far away from the first vacation he'd had in three years. He was trying to soothe himself with thoughts of his golfing gear and rc planes in the back of the buggy when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. 

  
He turned, as rapidly as he could in the awkward spacesuit that was just almost too ironic for words, to see...  
  


...the one person he'd felt like having with him on his 'moon weekend,' the one currently-contactable person in the universe who understood him and was content to just let Jack be Jack without judgments or paperwork to sign... bent almost double, wheezing into the radio.  
  


It took the (possibly over-seasoned) general a moment to realize that Daniel was not in distress. Nope; the little twerp was laughing. At him. Jack had started moving toward him out of alarm before realization hit, and now he kept moving until he was close enough to smack the back of Daniel's helmet. "You little...!!!!!"  
  


Daniel tried to straighten, tears glistening on his cheeks inside his protective gear. He put a hand on Jack's shoulder for support as he tried to stay both upright and on his feet. "Oh... oh... oh, Jack, that... thank you, that was..."  
  


A piece of Jack reflected that Daniel probably needed this laugh as much as Jack needed the vacation--maybe more--but most of Jack really didn't give a flying flip. Or didn't right this minute, anyway. "Alright, wise guy, what's the deal?"  
  


The archaeologist was still pulling himself together, but at least he could speak now. "The deal is that you are way too easy to mess with sometimes. A parking ticket? Really, Jack? Sounds like a sign of a guilty conscience, to me."  
  


The look Jack gave his best friend could've frozen Mercury. "Daniel," he said in a distinct warning tone, "why do you sound surprised?"  
  


"Oh. Ah. That." Daniel pointed to the ticket. "You see a parking ticket."  
  


"Beeeeecause that's what it is." Daniel shook his head fondly. Jack sighed. "Okay, egghead, if it's not a parking ticket, what is it?"  
  


Daniel said, "Look again, Jack." Jack almost snapped out a refusal, but his eyes were already moving down to the ticket... or what had been the ticket, and now looked suspiciously like a Scantron. He gaped, then glanced up at Daniel--and saw his smile. "Psychic paper. That's right, it was sort of a test; I wanted to know what you'd see. And let me tell ya, Jack, you do not disappoint. Oh, and thanks to you, the Doctor owes me twenty bucks."  
  


Jack blinked at Daniel a couple of times, and then simply opened his hand and let go of the paper, stepping in to his friend's personal space. "Oh, I'll give you twenty bucks right now...."


	5. Shades of Irony (Harry Potter/James Bond)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Warning: spoilers for Skyfall

_Harry Potter/James Bond movies, McGonagall &M, they were girlhood friends_

 

They'd often bickered about who'd got the worse given name--Minerva sounded like a sinus issue, and Mildred sounded like a pencil sharpener. They never did settle that argument.   
  


They did agree much later on the irony that neither of them had particularly aspired to position of power over others; it came down to an awful lot of 'just sort of happeneds' and 'right place/right times' and 'well, somebody had to be sensibles.' At least, even to the end, they had learned to keep no secrets from each other; that commitment had saved theirs and countless other lives, more than once.  
  


So when the Potter boy needed a safe place, the first name Minerva thought of was Milla; but at that time, Milla was deep under a few klicks from Bucharest, and her exit strategy was dicey enough as it was, and she didn't feel that she could risk both of their secrets to call in a magical marker. Mins understood. And when Mins' power only helped to save three of the four operatives who'd been pinned down by a Norweigian Ridgeback, Milla was grateful for the three men who did come home, and knew that Mins grieved for the one who didn't.  
  


They didn't speak regularly or often, but when they did, it was like being neighbors again, meeting in the crawlspace that joined the attics of their townhouses, sharing toys and snacks and secrets and nips from Milla's mum's single-malt. Mins spent half of each year there, in their early years, living with her aunt in Eagan Close while her parents did mysterious 'things.' Even after they whisked her off to boarding school, she would return whenever she could.   
  


Milla's secret came out before Mins' did, a twist which later gave them a laugh; yes, the revelations gave them some pause for thought, but when it came down to it, their relationship was built on what united them, and they chose to keep it that way. They kept their separate lives, maintained a sort of sorority of escape with each other. And each knew, the very few times when the other rang or texted (or Flooed) with only the word 'Dredva,' the name of the doll they'd styled a villain in their early play, to come without question because things were about as bad as they could get.  
  


There was no call, that last time. There was no call, but Mins knew, somehow; and again, as she stumbled along the way between the Great Hall and the faculty parlor, the shades of irony struck her like an aftershock. She'd just survived a war, an old woman standing on the front lines amongst an army of children, but it was Milla--the administrator surrounded by seasoned spies with gadgets that nearly rivaled magic itself--Milla who would never again meet her for sushi and scotch and green tea ice cream. And, Mins thought very clearly, that night a bit of the magic went out of her world.


	6. Reflection (Avengers)

_Thor(/Avengers), Loki, Loki looks terribly young in the Midgardian clothes known as 'jeans and a t-shirt'_

 

He's not thrilled with that.  He's not thrilled with the clothing, period.  But he knows all too well that he's no right to be anything but grateful; he's still more than a bit stunned that he wasn't shot on sight, either when Thor found him and rescued him from the Jotun cell, or by the Midgardians.  At least his brother had seen fit to warn him before they'd arrived in the mortal city.

 

It still sickens him, the accounts--the lingering evidence--of the destruction that Veidol had wrought while masquerading as Loki; and no matter what Thor says, or somehow convinces Thor's friends to say, about knowing that it wasn't him, knowing that he is not responsible for the actions of what amounts to a  half-brother....  Loki is fair certain that he will never be able to meet anyone's eyes, anyone in the whole of the universe, again.

 

And for an Asgard... for a Jotun, he viciously reminds himself... 'never' can be a very, very long time. 

 

So perhaps it is good that he looks young.  Maybe it will help him keep focused on finding a way to make amends for Veidol's rain of destruction.  Or, failing that (possibly just after that,) a way to end himself, so that no one will ever again have to look upon him, the face of nightmares.


	7. Almost (Pretender)

_Pretender. Miss Parker/Jarod. An end to the race._

 

Alone, in the privacy of the cabin she'd bought with cash, she slept.  And dreamed. 

  
He woke her up with a kiss, the expanse of his hard chest providing a warm target for her fingertips as she responded.  And it was almost not jarring anymore, to reach for his hand rather than her gun when she came to.  Almost surprising, still, to wake with someone hovering over her and not assume that this was going to be her last moment on earth.  It made her a little sick, thinking about the line she'd walked for so long, about the expectation of elimination that had become as much a part of her as breathing.  It made her sick.  

It made him angry.

And wasn't he a stunning sight when he was in full mad.  And yes, she was still getting used to the idea that he was *her* stunning sight.  

She'd chased him for so long, as he'd chased the life he should have had, and then, after it all, after all of the paperwork and interviews with law enforcement, she retreated to her cabin and he was just... there.  And wouldn't you know it--she was glad to see him.  She was glad that the race was over; she'd mourn for her father, for the only life she knew, later, but she'd vowed to appreciate relearning how to breathe.  

She didn't know if they would work, could work, as a couple.  Honestly, she couldn't see Jarod ever even considering something like divorce; honestly, she couldnt' see herself settling down to a peaceful rest of her life with anyone.  But for now, she would take what she could get.

So alone, in the privacy of the cabin she'd bought with cash, she slept.  And dreamed. 


	8. Mad? (Stargate Universe + a surprise guest from another fandom)

_Any, any, hearing voices no else can hear isn't always a bad thing (but you should probably keep it to yourself anyways)._

 

They say that silence is golden, but it's not.  At least, not for him.  For Eli, silence is black--the black of deep space, only rarely interrupted by color, little spots of color that are somehow more frightening than the darkness itself.  Maybe it's because they could be signs that he's stroking out, or that the dehydration or hypoxia or hypothermia... or the infection... might have started in on his brain in earnest.  Maybe it's because someone might have found them--either the blue aliens or the scavengers or even his own people--and that would mean either capture and death for him and the crew, or rescue and death for him at the hands of Rush.  Maybe it doesn't matter because he's already dead and just doesn't know it yet.

 

He doesn’t really know anymore, how long he’s been alone in the darkness and the silence and the cold.  He lost track awhile back, probably after rigging the water purifier from parts of the still in the galley, but before crawling around in the dark to find a leather shoe to gnaw on after he’d stretched out the food supplies as long as humanly possible.  The crawling was hard on him, so now he just sits on the floor against the wall, a lazy sentry guarding the sleeping crew.  His leg has finally stopped aching… or maybe the rest of him has started and so now he can’t tell one way or the other.  Either way, he’s grateful.  He thinks the bleeding may even have stopped; one reason to be thankful for the cold.  He’s tired, so very, very tired, but he can’t sleep, can’t allow himself that unforgiveable lapse of duty, not while the crew sleeps helplessly behind him. 

 

So, to keep himself more or less alert, and maybe also to distract himself from listening for the telltale sounds of another invasion, Eli talks to himself.  Well, he talks to the keno, or at least, that’s what he claims.  It’s his one real indulgence in all of this, since the kenos can operate for months on a power cell that wouldn’t make a whit of difference in the ship’s power supply.  And he consoles himself with the knowledge that at least this keno recorded everything that happened, everything that made Destiny’s big mission impossible to achieve.  So at least, when the crew does wake (if he doesn’t let anything happen to them,) they can see that he did try, and they can hear how sorry he is.  He doesn’t know how many times he’s said it, how many times he’s apologized to all of them, but he remembers at least one time of going through every name he could recall and apologizing individually.  He cried a couple of times, but even if he could spare the tears now, even if his body would produce any, they’d just make his cheeks itch and ache more from cold.

 

It’s stupid, he knows, and crazy besides, but since he’s certain that he’s going clinically insane anyway, it’s kind of a moot point.  So he’s stopped feeling weird about talking out loud.  He even sings sometimes, whatever snippet of a song (or sometimes two or three that blend together in his head) happens to be stuck in his consciousness at the moment.  At first, he talked just a little, giving updates on the ship’s damage and on his progress with the last pod, though he hasn’t made any progress in a long time and has probably not worked on it in a couple of weeks, since he can only allow himself enough power to keep space just at bay.  Then he started to talk more, just so that he wouldn’t go stir-crazy quite so pathetically soon.  He’d dozed off a few times, and his dreams have been filled with terrible creatures coming for him and for the crew, so talking helps some.

 

But here lately, he’s all but stopped doing that.  Mostly, he just doesn’t have the energy anymore.  The sound of his own voice startles him, and being startled wears him out; he’s still listening for sounds of the ship being boarded or fired on, and in some ways, he almost wishes that it would just happen already so that he can stop worrying about it.  He’s challenged them, dared them, threatened them rather creatively, and even invited them.  He’s pretty sure that the last time he started to doze, he asked one of them for a dance.  He really hopes the keno didn’t catch that.

 

So when he first hears it, he tries to dismiss it.  It’s soft, faint, like a distant whisper.  He tags it as feminine, which seems random to him, but okay—if his subconscious wants to go all chick on him, who is he to criticize its delusions?  The whisper isn’t really consistent; it comes and goes, sometimes with very long gaps.  It—she--sounds… worried, broody, sometimes even fretful.  And the really bizarre thing is…. He doesn’t understand a word she’s saying at first.  Not a single bit.  He likes the sounds, the lilts and clicks and rolls, different and somehow cultured, with a sort of old feel; but he’s never heard any of these words before, and so he tries at first to force himself to guess at their meaning, to break the code.  And then he runs out of energy for that, so he listens.  The whisper ebbs and flows, startles him when she comes and leaves him bereft when she goes, and he doesn’t tell the keno.  The little recorder is the only friend he has in the universe, but he doesn’t mention the voice to it.    

 

Until one day (night?  Week?  Year?) Eli is dozing, caught in that twilight state and trying to remember why he should care about staying awake, and his whisper comes back. 

 

But this time, she’s in English.

 

And not just English, but, you know, _English_ English. 

 

And she’s _ticked_.  Eli doesn’t know who the ‘he’ is or what the ‘he’ has done, but she is ticked off at the ‘he’ and is not shy about expressing it, weaving her English with what could be one or six other languages.  And it’s _funny_.  Eli snorts, and it hurts, but that just makes him snort again.  He can’t see the keno, but he can feel it raise itself from the deck at the sound.  He’s sorely disappointed when the ‘show’ ends, and wonders if he somehow dreamed it.

 

And then she’s back, an hour or a day later, worried and unhappy but more grumbling than ranting this time.  And when she asks if all ‘silly little bipedals are required to be lunatics and idiots,’ Eli grins.  And says, out loud, “Yep, pretty much.”

 

She goes silent for a few moments, and then, with a curious hush, she asks, “Are you certain?”

 

“Um… yeah.  I guess I’m what you’d call an expert, really—I’m outrageously good at being both a lunatic and an idiot.  So, yeah, you can pretty much take it to the bank.”

 

A shorter pause, then, “Oh, really?  And who would you be, then?  Please don’t tell me you’re just another stupid ape.”

 

“Heh.  Well, that kinda depends on the version you prefer.  To tell you the truth, I’m not really a big fan of the whole evolved-monkey thing, but hey, whatever peels your banana.”

 

She goes quiet for so long that he deflates, thinking that he said something wrong and she left him, like most everyone else he knows.  And then, “You like bananas?”

 

Not really, no, but it’d been so long since he’s eaten anything that if he had a banana now, he’d cry.  “They have their points.”

 

“Indeed.  On both ends, even.  I think I like you—you remind me of someone I know.”

 

“Really?  Uh… thanks.  I think.  I hope it’s not the guy you were so ticked at earlier.  He sounded like a first-class twit.  Maybe you should try whacking him with the banana—if nothing else, you can use what’s left to make a smoothie.  Out of the banana, not out of the twit.”  It takes him a few seconds to realize that the not-quite-sound is her laughing… and she laughs for so long that Eli starts to laugh with her, despite the thin atmosphere on the ship.

 

Eli touches his tongue to his teeth and barely feels it, but right now, he doesn’t care.  Right now, he almost feels… alive. 


	9. Support System (Once Upon a Time)

_Once Upon A Time, Rumpel/Belle, anything fluffy_

 

He could still be a real jerk sometimes, he knew, and he did still have a certain reputation to maintain, but when she started showing signs of gestational diabetes and something that looked like epilepsy, all bets were off.  He heard his name--bless Henry to infinity for calling for him first--and was out of his shop and down the street faster than he'd moved since Bae had fallen off of the shop ladder and crashed through an empty glass case.   
  
Belle had nearly made it to the library before she'd collapsed, and they'd talk later in detail about her going to work when she was supposed to be on bedrest, but for the moment, his slowly healing heart melted at the sight of her, pale and pinched, while small Henry sat on the frigid pavement in an effort to keep her off of it.  Rumple's wife lay on his grandson's lap, holding the boy's hand in a deathgrip as friends and near-strangers gathered round them, expressing concern and asking how they could help.  Rumple arrived and some of those people edged away uncertainly, but Belle's love had begun to change him in deep places, and he almost unconsciously tossed out a sincere 'thank you, everyone, thank you' as he knelt next to two of the three--well, really, three of the four--most precious people in his life.  He dropped his cane and gently touched Belle's forehead with his right hand and her womb with his left, reassured to feel that her temperature was nearly normal and that his bairn was moving beneath his touch.   
  
It wasn't long, perhaps minutes, until Michael Tillman and the prince were carefully lifting Belle, and Bae was lifting Henry, and everyone was moving to the largest car available, where someone Rumple couldn't immediately name dove behind the wheel to drive the couple to the hospital.  Belle came out of one of those eerily silent seizures to focus on Rumple, and managed a tired smile from the crook of his cradling arm.   
  
"Am I in trouble?"  Her voice was a bit shaky but not overly worried.  
  
"Should you be?" He returned, one eyebrow raised, though he was so glad to be holding her and conversing with her that he had a hard time thinking about how frightened he'd been.  
  
She bit her upper lip in a way he found adorable, gave him big eyes, and said, "Only I'm a bit fuzzy on what's happened.  Who are you again, and was this seat taken?"  
  
He couldn't help it--he grinned down at her, enjoying their private joke.  He leaned down, his response too low for anyone else to hear, and then nuzzled her as they pulled up to the emergency room doors.  Hands took her from him gently, and then Bae was leaning into the car to hand him his forgotten cane and offer him a hand getting out.   
  
An hour later, Belle was tucked into a bed for observation.  Snow White came in with a tote bag of Belle's softest nightgown and robe and some fussy feminine things like creams and fuzzy socks.  The cricket was manning the library so that no one would have to tell their favorite pregnant lady that her books were locked away from readers for the day.  Bae had taken Henry to the shop, Emma was helping Red carry in a delivery from the diner (Granny's treat,) and even Regina had rung over to check on them and to say that she'd bring over several boxes of Henry's old baby things after business hours, just so that they'd have a start.   
  
Belle wasn't due for another month, and Rumple wasn't at all certain that he wouldn't go absolutely mad for fretting before then, but it seemed that the entire town was waiting in the wings to support her and the baby... and even him.   
  
If magic always came with a price, then evidently, family always came with a bonus.


	10. Bird of a Different Alloy (Avengers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you give the guy who has nothing but sharp objects?

Avengers movieverse, Clint+Tony, He's always wondered what it was like to wear the Iron Man suit.

 

Oh, he’s never actually said it out loud, but Tony knows. Or at least, Tony figures. I mean, really, who doesn’t wonder? Well, maybe not Captain Boy Scout… or Wolverine… but yeah, pretty much everybody. Tony’s really a pretty generous guy when you get right down to it, and he’s not used to having his money and his connections mean, well… squat. And this whole gift thing they’ve started doing has turned out to be a lot less lame and a lot more fun than he’d thought (though he’s only admitted that to Pepper, and only after she called him on it one night, he thinks it was just after Banner’s party. Which Tony totally threw for him, which was as close to a blowout as one can get with chamber music and incense. The Malibu house still smells like lavender. But Banner does love his gift. Tony’s pretty sure that the dude is trying to produce flubber… which would only be the coolest thing ever done in Banner’s new lab nee Tony’s old kitchen. But then, everyone seems to really like his gifts, from Natasha’s wall-climbing gear to the journal he gave Rogers that was full of Rogers’ old sketches and Howard Stark’s private thoughts throughout the Captain America project.) So when Tony finds himself stuck for a birthday gift for the guy who has nothing and seems fine with that, it finally comes to him—the one thing, the very single thing that Tony Stark has that no one else does. 

The Suit.

Well, actually, he has like nine of them (ten, when the idea he had last Wednesday gets, ahem, ironed out and built,) but still. It’s the one thing the multibillionaire can think of, and since he’s really not cool with not being able to think of anything, he’s gonna go with this idea, and he’s gonna make it great. Better than the gifts from the others. 

He’s gonna give Hawkeye a chance to spend the night cruising in the suit. 

Oh, but not the main suit, not the red one that Tony uses most of the time. No, for this, he’s plucked out number 7 and had it repainted, just for the night, so that everything from the holographic face plate to the retractable wing panels evoke, well, a hawk. He’s even added a clamp on the back for a quiver and the new Asgardian ash bow. 

Tomorrow, the team trains. Well, most of the team trains; tomorrow, Hawkeye jets off for Estonia with Hunt and his little spylings.

Tonight, the Hawk and the Iron Man are gonna play.


	11. Try to Catch the Deluge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the first of these that I wrote in this cycle, but I had chosen to hold off posting it for the sake of surprising a friend. I'm rethinking that motivation after recent events.

Try to Catch the Deluge

Mitchell and Jana adored Kurt—he was strong, colorful, and nigh-on fearless, and he meshed well with them from the start, making the perfect Vincent to their Orleanne and Sabrina in the company’s touring gender-flip of Twelfth Night. Really, they’d expected the replacement for their former Vincent to be passable at best, someone to be worked around, so they’d both been stunned and delighted when Hummel had joined them in Dallas a day early and ready to dive right into lines and blocking. Jana would have asked him out if he hadn’t been very clear about his preferences, and Mitchell just loved having someone around who didn’t needle him for making up songs to help himself remember his cues and get into the emotions of a given scene. 

But there were a couple of things about him that they would never understand… why he refused to drink (or be near anyone else drinking) anything with color; why he laughed through James Bond but cried through Charlie and the Chocolate factory; and why he went outside, in the middle of a Texas spring thunderstorm, and turned his face up to the sky. They watched him, unable to tear away their gazes, and they more than half expected him to start screaming into the wind, an expression of defiance… but he never did. They theorized quietly that he might just like getting drenched… but he was fastidious about his appearance. Not even the start of the hail, or the distant sound of emergency sirens from one of the ‘burbs, seemed to faze him. They went outside, finally, dashing over to get him under Jana’s ridiculously oversized Tinkerbell umbrella and to talk him into coming in, but in the end, neither of them said a word to him. They bracketed him and opened their mouths to speak, but then they saw his expression, and the words died and blew away in the horizontal rain. They stood, transfixed, the British bit-part actor and the gutsy Canadienne, unable to put into words the kind of energy in their friend’s face.

After a few minutes, Kurt said simply, “You can’t stop the rain; you can hide from it, you can curse it… or you can open your soul and drink.” And with that, he turned around and walked back into the theatre.


	12. Leverage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's what brothers do.

LOTR, Boromir + Faramir, anything with these two together

Faramir wheezed a little, trying to regain his breath, which wasn't easy, what with his oliphauntine elder brother on top of him and all. Still, this was an old, old tune with them, and Faramir knew his part very well.

A bit too well, in point of fact.

"Ah, Fara," Boromir huffed out a laugh, "it's always good to see you. How have you been? And do we need to talk about the Lady Toruvel?"

"Impressive... as you... cannot... curr... ently... *see* me," Fara gasped good-naturedly. Faramir might have inherited their mother's sharp angles, but Boromir had definitely gotten at least twice the bone density, and just at the moment, his elbow's density was working mightily to displace Faramir's collarbone. An obligatory brotherly wrestle seemed reasonable enough, but why the heir to the House of Stewards felt the need to converse whilst still pinning his younger brother to the dirt... that had never been explained. "And no," he said a bit more smoothly as Boromir lifted the offending elbow (but only the offending elbow--he still lay facedown diagonally across the younger captain) "we do not, unless you would care to solicit my advice for wooing her. Which would be to not bother; and whatever brought her to mind anyway?" 

Boromir knuckled the top of his brother's scalp in fond exasperation. "You, of course, Scamp. Your page said that you'd had missives from her ladyship. So shall I be expecting an announcement soon?"

Faramir rolled his eyes and wrinkled his nose as he realized that his brother stank. Which wasn't at all unusual, but nonetheless unpleasant. "Rowan would have said no such thing to you unless you had either threatened or bribed him--you know that he is terrified of you. And yes, there was one missive... a rather uppity demand for 'proper, flawless' silk on our next trek to the South. As if that is our mission." His tone brightened. "But if you really insist, I would be glad to offer her your personal assurances, complete with promise of delivery." He laughed as Boromir gently socked him below the breastbone, and added, "I'm sure she would be just... enchanted by your 'properly exotic' aroma." 

That earned him another wrestle, which rolled them both to the bank of the little creek where they'd been meeting to fish, talk, comisserate, and occasionally 'dispose of' some 'substandard' ale since they were teenagers. Predictably, Faramir wound up pinned again, the creek burbling somewhere past the top of his head, while Boromir growled that he smelled 'just fine, thank you very much, you big girl.'

But that was just fine with Faramir. If Boromir had been looking at his little brother rather than just obliviously describing his latest fancy's attributes and offering to introduce Faramir to her spinster sister, he'd have seen the twinkle in Fara's gray eyes. And even Boromir would have known that that twinkle always led to trouble. Who knew where Faramir had gotten his mischievous streak, since Finduilas had been transparent and Denethor certainly had never twinkled a day in his life, but the younger brother had eyes that Boromir would only ever see in one other person, a person he would follow literally unto death. 

But Boromir didn't see the twinkle. Faramir was half his brother's bulk and had never been able to rely on brute force... so Boromir himself had ensured that the thinner boy had learned to use other advantages to protect himself.

Advantages such as leverage. And surprise.

And so when Boromir found himself sputtering in the cold, cold waters of the creek, calling Faramir all manner of names, Fara stood, turned to face the creek, crouched, and laughed as he pointed out that this was Boromir's own fault, and that at least he'd have gotten a bath before dinner.


End file.
